


(Into selfishness)

by HolyEmpress



Series: The psyqualia Miwa collection [2]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Blood, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Leashes, M/M, Physical Abuse, Psyqualia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyEmpress/pseuds/HolyEmpress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wish I didn't write such long scenes !! It would make summing up much easier ! <br/>Anyway, this belongs to the psyqualia Miwa alternate canon serie. I wanted to just ... write how good of a dynamic Ren and Miwa dating AND teaming up against Kai would be, while also indulging into some... nice, and utterly self-indulgent Kai/Ren shenanigans.</p><p>Once again, warning for what I would call one of my most extreme texts, I tried to write it as /real/ as I could and it might show... but if you're into that, have a fun read. o.</p>
    </blockquote>





	(Into selfishness)

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I didn't write such long scenes !! It would make summing up much easier !   
> Anyway, this belongs to the psyqualia Miwa alternate canon serie. I wanted to just ... write how good of a dynamic Ren and Miwa dating AND teaming up against Kai would be, while also indulging into some... nice, and utterly self-indulgent Kai/Ren shenanigans.
> 
> Once again, warning for what I would call one of my most extreme texts, I tried to write it as /real/ as I could and it might show... but if you're into that, have a fun read. o.

There's nothing for him to do at Ren's place but cook.

It doesn't feel like a home – the spacious appartment is just too cold and too tidy for that, there's just too much design and not enough soul, between the large baywindow and the stylish furniture, but at least the kitchen is vast and nice to work in. He breathes in the fumes coming from his various casserole, tastes the soup one last time to check the balance of the spices – and relaxes at the thought that there is at least one thing he's still good at. Mechanical, precise activities that required minimal thinking - chopping, mincing, and avoiding the dark matter waiting to swallow everything on the back of his brain.

Miwa wouldn't come back before an hour, an hour and a half maybe, if he got lucky – he'd skipped his own classes on purpose, after a visit to the nurse's office, just to enjoy some time alone.

The nurse, who was getting more and more worried about his ugly bruises, the bad cut under his eyebrow ( _but it's nothing, really,_ he'd asserted, voice barely shaking anymore, he was so good at it now, so _obedient_ ) and the dark bags under his eyes – but there wasn't any parents to call, any caring family member to have a talk with, so she just allowed him to leave nowadays, with a nice, concerned goodbye, _take care of yourself, Kai –_ he never had the strength to answer a genuine smile.

The early hours of the afternoon had been peaceful.

He'd considered going to his own appartment, before deciding against it – it was pointless, when he would have to go back here anyway. Miwa had made a duplicate of his keys, _it's a things lovers do,_ to prevent him from hiding away – and the bed in the guest room was almost as good as it could get, so it wouldn't really make a different. The only thing he genuinely missed was his cat, but Overlord was better staying away from him – the neighbours texted him, sometimes, to keep him up to date with his shenanigans and invite him to come over someday to see his beloved pet again (but he just couldn't, _not in this pitiful state_ ).

So he had gone directly to Ren's, to take a long, uneventful nap. The nightmares barely bothered him anymore. It was always more of the same ; shadows, screams and pain, replaying the old memories, the _images_ , because even sleep was no place to hide in the end. The feelings – the guilt and the fear – caught up to him faster than he could escape them, a neverending cycle, even when _he_ was away. Miwa's kisses had a ghostlike presence on his lips. He felt the trace of his hands, the soft touch of his fingers, down his neck and up to his chin – a silent pressure.

Maybe today would be calmer.

Maybe he'd get tired of seeing him bleed.

 

And cooking was really the only thing he could do at Ren's place, because anything else was either forbidden, or going to cause him trouble in the end, so he had no reason to attempt playing videogames, taking a bath, listening to the music he liked – just to know Miwa would end up taking it away. He had stripped his life to the bare minimum ; people like him, the worse of the worse, deserved to experience the true horror of cravings, and he remembered the nights he'd slept on the floor, the time Ren had just so carelessly eaten away his breakfast – but it was alright. Food wasn't necessary, and the hunger howling in his chest, just another reminder he was doing it for someone else's sake.

The smell of the vegetables, slowly boiling next to him, is a lot sweeter than anything he'd tasted in a while – he takes time to chew them , to assert the flavors, and only adds a pinch of salt to it, ultimately satisfied. Somehow, these moments had been getting rarer, and he refused to admit, the cracks forming in his confidence – even if, to Miwa, his consciouness was see-through.

Something had gone away. The brash confidence, the will to be the best, to do the most, the joyful tone he used as he felt victory coming closer to him – were piles of dust, blown away by the wind, consequences of being used as a tool instead of a human being. His hand shakes, when he starts breaking eggs for an omelet – Miwa wanted a worshipper. Someone who'd lick his feets and kiss his hand lovingly, with gratitude, who'd cry on command and let him caress the tears on his chin disdainfully, and he had done it for him, even found it pleasant sometimes, because Miwa's skin was soft, his movement graceful when he stroked his cheeks, his compliments, _more genuine than anything he'd ever heard,_ you look so good Kai, _you look so good when you try to please me._

 

\- Look at you. Skillful as always, a voice singsongs in his ears, interrupting his train of thoughts.

He'd almost forgotten about him.

Ren was sitting at the counter, smiling gleefully – this was one of the unplanned aspect of his « relationship » with Miwa he still had trouble accepting. He was the young boy's _second_ boyfriend, rich after the person who happened to be his rich and annoying ex.

Ren looked dashing, still partly dressed in his school uniform – he'd only changed into a pair of black jeans and added one of his favorite half-skirt on top of it. His hair had been untied as well, messily falling down his shoulders, and it seems Ren's hair still had that secret way of arranging itself in the very best way effortlessy – he looked just as wildly charming as he used too, but thanksfully, he only enjoyed the aesthetics of his presence. Otherwise, he was a pain to live with and – and he was the person who'd enabled Miwa.

Into sloppy kisses and cuts thats « didn't mean a thing ».

Into saying orders and wanting to be obeyed, threatening for consequences, loving people in ways that hurt them « for their own good ».

 

( _Into selfishness, more simply put_ ).

 

Their daily cardfights were liberating, however. He felt weak, physically and mentally, but his jousts against Ren were a time where he could come alive, and let the hatred in his heart take over, burn his second thoughts into flames – thriving on rancor and frustration, and he knew Ren loved it, _it was always about seeing the insects down his feet struggle,_ adored the light in his emerald eyes, but he couldn't care less. _I'm sorry I took away your precious toy,_ the fighter had said once, mockingly, as they were shuffling their decks. The same expressions always came back in his filthy mouth, dirty parodies of romance, _my darling Miwa,_ _my sweet angel,_ and it was enough to get on his nerves.

 

It was excruciatingly hard to admit he cared – that he wanted to beat Ren's face into the ground, despite the fact that he could, some days, barely lift up his hand, but it was disgusting to just _see_ them. To witness Ren's self satisfied smile when Miwa asked him for a kiss – it was one of their « things », as a couple, but the difference in tone was so obvious, because he had to _obey_ Miwa while Ren would simply _oblige._

To see Miwa changing into the clothes he liked best after school too, depending on his mood – and it was haunting him, the fact that if he'd failed where Ren had suceeded, then, truly, he was a monster worth fearing, and it made him nauseous, to see his mischevious ex gain his bestfriends trust, little by little, doing things by the books too. From the romantic dinner to the valentine day's present boxes, filled to the brim with chocolates, to the flowers and the concert tickets, all the stuff he could have done but had never occured to him before then.

(he hated it)

( _the unclean feeling of being second-best after_ _Ren_ )

 

\- Isn't this just lovely, Kai ? Ren taunts him again, dipping one of his – unwashed – fingers into the cooking pot.

He almost smashes an egg in frustration, but pretends not to hear him, and silence the thoughts that urge him to get mad. Ren licks his finger with a smug smile, right into his line of vision – he caughts himself paying attention to it for a second, distracted by his lips.

He remembered the time they'd spent together. The neverending annoyance, because his « boyfriend » knew he could get a lot by bothering and teasing him – that he'd cave in to put an end to the distraction. But he remembered, too.

That Ren gave wonderful kisses – deep and fufilling as well. That he had be willing to trade a lot of things, for that split second of bliss that washed away the sin, the remorse and the sadness, for the taste of sugar and chocolate, the divine permission to forget – to let his ex-boyfriend take care of the rest of his life for a moment. It was easy to belong there, between the touch of the fingers and the pressure of the greedy lips – Ren was like a void, sucking everything away around him. Their kisses – had no background, had no air, but suffocating was nice, pleasant somehow, with him.

Much nicer than this.

 

\- I missed your cooking. That's part of what makes you such a good boyfriend.

Ren's voice sings every word, tipping over the edge that separates sickening and sweet – like a thick syrup drenching his already weary mind. He hates him for giving that to Miwa as well, the ability to make sincerity sound so fake, to cut compliments into sharp, bloody blades. They were just too alike now ; Miwa's smile, dulled out by the artificial spotlight of Ren's company, was nothing of the radiance he'd known in the past, and Ren – Ren had stolen from Miwa's mannerisms, consciously or not, but he recognized, sometimes, the expressions.

The way he lets the word « boyfriend » roll on his tongue just a little too long, to make it ring, fill the space between them – to observe his reaction more than anything.

\- We're not dating, he corrects him out of habit.

Ren pretends to be unphased, but he sees him, staring with interest at the spice containers he'd lined out next to the cooking pot. It's almost unavoidable – and something within him wants to see it happen, to see him ruin it – so he decides to just watch, as the young boy starts pouring the contents of the bottles randomly into the soup. Every drop is a torture. It upsets him more than it should, only because it's his soup, because it's the only thing he has left to himself and it's being thoroughly – utterly ruined.

He gives Ren a bitter smile when he accidentally scrambles the omelet, and smiles somewhat harder when he _just so happen_ to spill the sauce over the floor. It's only then that his ex finally decides to speak again, when they're both bent over, trying to wipe the mess away.

 _Dangerously_ close to each other.

\- Aren't we ? I can't even remember why we broke up anymore.

The tone is playful, and Ren is good-looking, even in this situation. The tie from his Fukuhara uniform is covered with thick liquid, and strands of his hair, falling off from his loose ponytail – but these kind of details where never any hindrance for him. He'd managed to be beautiful in much dire circumstances, and off course, they weren't dating – they just spent time together, in the same room. To fight. To fight _over someone else,_ but the pretext wasn't enough to take the thrill away completly. Breathing down Ren's neck and breathing in his careless insults were almost similar activities to him now.

It was a blur.

Normal and abnormal blended into each other effortlessly.

\- You got bored. I was « a downer », he quotes, somewhat defiantly, wiping the last bit of sauce on the floor.

 

He realizes just how tired he feels when he stands up again – but the feeling never went away anymore nowadays. The heavy weight in his chest, the dust that seemed to be stuck behind his eyelids _forever –_ as if _seeing_ the world itself had become a pain – could never be lifted, and only sunk further which each kisses. Ren contributed to the restlessness but, unlike Miwa, Ren was easy.

There was no question in his behavior, only clear answers to his everyday problems, and an invitation to give in, to give up on the « hard way » he was so keen on pursuing.

 _You don't have to_ , he'd say before their fights.

\- I changed my mind, he comments gleefully again.

Ren takes one sip, to gauge his « improvement » on the soup, and immediatly spits it in the sink, which is the last thing needed to piss him off. He's the one who wasted it.

Who'd ruined something he'd poured _love_ and effort into – _but you don't really have love to give, do you ?_ A familiar voice protests in his head.

So he turns over, and angrily pushes Ren against the fridge, firmly locking his wrists in his hands – the young boy doesn't struggles one instant. He also fails to take satisfaction out of it.

\- Are you sure you didn't miss my company ? The insufferable redhair asks, unimpressed.

Parting his lips slightly – and he clenches his teeth, for that the vulgarity of Ren's attitude is only an echo of his own pathetic attempt at dominating anyone, anything. His grip lacks strength, and Ren slides his hand out of it, raise it up – to caress his cheek. Its too soft, and lasts too long, even more when he repeats the gesture a second, then a third time.

Ren's pity is bittersweet against his skin – but he doesn't cry, because it's him, and just agressively brushes him away, pulls him down for the kiss they'd both been waiting for, draining on his leftover energy one last time. He'd refused to close his eyes for him, before, back when he had a pride, a motive to fight – back when wounds where battlescars, and not ordinary cuts he'd reopen everyday – but pride belonged to the past now.

He savours their loveless kiss all he can, however. Ren's guiding, and he follows.

He breathes in, and out.

\- Don't mind me, someone whispers down his neck.

It feels as if, for a second, his heart snaps in half. Not peaceful, nor relaxed anymore, it simply breaks in fear – Miwa's voice is enough to make him panic. His left hand is shaking already, the other waiting to follow ; his lips, gasping for air, and his emerald eyes, terrified, but the signs don't make Ren stop. He'd go so far as saying he likes it, the panic on his traits, the fact that it's caused by his bestfriend, his _dearest,_ scariest boyfriend now. The joke rings hilarious to his ear ; it's impossible to pick what he likes most, between his obvious desperation, his sad need for help, or the view he has on Miwa's face, probably smiling, certainly beautiful, sharp and emotionless.

Everything about their kiss is too perfect.

Too perfect of a twisted, dark fantasy _for Suzugamori Ren_.

 

He just wants to puke and pass out, but there's no way out of a scenario in which he's the main protagonist, _the shining hero_ – no stopping a dinner that hasn't reached its main course as well, so he just hesitantly slows down, and waits fearfully.

They both seem terribly hungry for him.

\- I said go on, Kai, Miwa repeats firmly.

He obliges and keeps kissing Ren. Strangely, there's no awkwardness. The gestures are cold and mechanical, but he knows how to obey Miwa, and kissing without feelings – isn't very hard. Maybe it's his intent, to force him to experience the wideness of his disgusting indifference, that went from casually ignoring his bestfriend, to this – pretend-dating, pretend loving, _you couldn't do it for real if you tried, anyway,_ and he digs his nails into Ren's skin, bites into his lips, moving his tongue faster, because he just _has_ to keep kissing him, to make the sloppy embrace last.

It's a dirty type of « forever ».

\- Don't stop until I say so.

 

Miwa's presence is disturbing. Too close, and too intimate – even if Ren's the one he's making out with, everything about the careful setup screams Miwa, especially the fact that he hasn't seen his face yet. Doesn't know about his outfit too – sometimes, he dressed more nicely, when he had _plans._

He genuinely appreciated Miwa's new wardrobe. The cute skirts, the elegant dresses expressed a joy that had been absent from his old outfits – but he looked at them with dull eyes. Just as much as the monotoneous sweatshirts had been a symbol of the _old Miwa,_ the inability to notice _the problem_ with his sad, unpersonal clothes was a trait of the past Kai. The one who shrugged and moved on.

It was hard to think of it as a former self.

It was hard to remember fearlessness – Miwa was caressing the back of his neck now, his hair pushed out of the way to make way for his cold fingers. It's almost a way to say good night ; to scold him for his avoidant behavior too. He could run, sleep, bargain for some quiet with the highschool nurse – Miwa always caught up in the end. Right up to his neck.

Ren is _almost tasteless_ now – only Miwa matters, the most powerful of the two, and he feels something _leathery_ roll around his neck in the meantime, refuses to acknowledge the anxiety down in chest when the _collar_ doesn't fall off, and that he's even more terrified by the fact that it doesn't stop him for obeying his former order. Blood and bruises ; the memory of his face, covered in mud, of the darkness behind blindfolds, _the abandon_ forbade him from protesting. He was too tired. Out of air – Miwa _pulls_ , grabing the leather directly, cutting his breath for an instant. It hurts. A hand comes and locks his wrist too. At least, he's free from Ren.

Who's watching him now, smugly – brushing off an invisible fold on his jacket, and smiling.

(Maybe _he's_ crying, too.)

 

He catches some kind of _flirting_ between them – because Ren forces a sweeter, kinder smile, twists a strand of his hair, looking _over_ him, as if his struggle was simply a negligeable annoyance, even if he catches glances in his direction, or rather, looks detailing _the thing_ around his neck. He can't barely believe it's happening, but the humiliation is real.

\- _Love,_ would you mind hitting him in the face? Miwa says in his back.

He hopes, for a second, that Ren actually minds his request for needless violence.

For the sake of all they've been through – and maybe the love they've felt for each other long ago. Stuck here, collared and cornered, stripped all of his dignity, the only thing left for him to pray to is Ren's pity and his sense of family – the illusion that he belonged to the few people he cared about in this world, and that his body had been bruised enough, tormented enough, that he wouldn't want to add to his suffering.

But Ren is merciless as always ; he throws a straight, that shatters his nose and finish its course into his left eye, so strongly he can't help but let out a pained cry – cut out immediatly by Miwa's firm grasp onto the collar that stops his breathing once again. The pain is numbing, and his legs feel weak as well – but Miwa's holding him up, refusing to let go. It's harder to register what's happening around him, the kitchen dancing around, blurred out and unstable to his dizzy head, but he gets a glimpse of Ren's expression. No pity – but still, something different from his former playfulness.

Insatisfaction.

(He's standing in the way – that leads to his truest rival).

 

\- That's a little weak. You could do better, Miwa says scornfully.

He's trying to rile him up – meanwhile, he can finally taste it. Blood flowing from his nose to his lips, then falling onto the floor, just like the sauce he'd spilled before. _It's just sauce,_ his brain repeats again as he stares at the small drops, slowly amassing into a small puddle, to avoid thinking about his breathing getting heavier too. There was no point paying attention to his own panic, and nothing to do. Forward was Ren's fist ; and in his back, Miwa's hand lovingly holding onto his collared neck. He looks down for a second, observe the movement of Ren's foot.

His fist hits him before he can even realize – mixed signals of pain come to him, his tongue he'd bitten by accident, blood now coming straight from his lips, the feeling of his nose getting _smashed_ against Ren's fingers. He chokes when his head falls down again, then spits out. The blood puddle is bigger, uglier than before. Sauce didn't spill in such a messy, disgusting way – he tries to swallow back, again, before faintly opening his lips to let the steady flow drop down. The taste – the taste is something else, from his soup, his cooking, different from Ren's kiss to. It's simply disgusting.

 

\- Now that's a decent punch, he hears, failing to pay attention to the rest of the sentence, lost in his agony.

He closes his eyes – then forces himself to open them again. Passing out wasn't an option. He hadn't fought Ren yet today ; he had to talk to Miwa. To reason him out of this, somehow, anyhow. To change into fresh clothes, a shirt that wouldn't be tainted in red, and try his best once again.

Something in his heart laughs at the idea, as the tears fall off silently to meet with the blood drops. _Trying his best_ was a wonderful joke, when his best wasn't even decent to anyone. He only suceeded when it came to being the worst.

Miwa releases the pressure around his neck, and he notices a second too late, already losing balance, before a strong movement holds him back. It's hard to pull the pieces together – to pay attention to anything. He realizes that Ren is gone as well, maybe on Miwa's order, he doesn't really know. It's just pain, blood, and a fight to keep himself awake. Miwa – _his boyfriend –_ finally moves to face him.

His hand is holding a leash.

But the most jarring thing is the lack of empathy on his face, and there's an awkward moment spent looking at Miwa's unmoved eyes, staring at the cutesy pattern of his dress, adorned with embroidery and frills, bright red cherries with cheerfully green leaves, on a plain white fabric. He just keeps staring blankly, because it's pretty, oddly so.

And he wonders if the sight is wonderful for Miwa too ; the young boy's raises his free hand to touch his skin. There's no doubt in his gestures. He caresses his slowly forming bruises, pressing onto the most sensitive spots, stopping to contemplate his grimaces of pain, in silence, while he's struggling to – barely – keep his feets on the ground. Then, one of Miwa's fingers comes, gently, to wipe some blood of his lips and he shivers, because it's too sensual, too loving.

Because he has no agency anymore.

\- Take it off, he whispers with great difficulties, as his boyfriends hand grabs his chin, forcing him to look up.

 

There's a long silence, seconds spent lost in each other's eyes, wondering where everything had gone so wrong or so right. Between the pain signals, stronger than the taste of iron on his tongue, Miwa's eyes are like liquor flowing into his heart, and a light on the shore to the sunken ship that was his soul. There's still leather on his neck, scarlet on his shirt, self-hatred, self-disgust lost in his ever-shorter, ever-pained breaths, but the sight of Miwa's face washes everything away.

For the first time he thinks – about the fact that Miwa could kill him. Drop him from the highest floor and let him fall down, twenty floors lower, _just like sauce._ Ren would cover up the crime, and no one would ever know. For the first time in a long while, he was aware of his mortality. When people couldn't breath, stand or eat anymore, they died.

He wasn't more magical than his parents, than the people on the news, or the kids that got bullied until breakpoint and ended up as some newspaper's headline – maybe, putting himself in so much danger wasn't worth it, but he loved him. Adored him, even. His bestfriend, his boyfriend ; it was hard to find even one of his good memories that didn't feature Miwa or Ren, and he owed them thanksfulness for letting him know about the feeling of joy itself.

Perhaps it's the dizziness, but he remembers Miwa's laugh, like a bell, ringing from afar, and smiles smugly between the tears.

 

It's okay.

It's okay if it's for Miwa.

( _The grey shine is blinding somehow_ ).

\- No, his boyfriend says, showing no sign of emotion, before pulling on the leash fiercely.

 

It strangles him, pulls him closer to Miwa, but his legs won't follow, and he simply fall down to his knees, against the kitchen counter, hurting his shoulder and his head in the process. It's as if he's a marionette, dead in the puppet's master hands, and everything is contained in the wordless dialogue going on between his boyfriend in him.

The thing they'd never said to each other were the ones which mattered the most – so he doesn't say that it hurts, that it hurts _everything,_ and that yet, he wants him more than he'd even want his pride back, and in exchange, Miwa doesn't say that he's pleased, and that he loves to see him so powerless, so beautifully _trusting,_ compliant to his masterplan, because he doesn't need to.

He _belongs_ to him.

 

As a payback for his years of _service._

\- You deserve to feel just how worthless you are, he says, almost for himself.


End file.
